Inside the Walls of Troy
by Ramzes
Summary: Helen has spent in Troy more years than she cares to count. Once, she has been happy. Is she now? What is it like to live inside the walls of Troy?


**Disclaimer: The characters belong to the world that for millennia had been admiring the ancient Greek culture.**

_Inside the Walls of Troy_

From her window, Helen could see the palaces of Hector and Helenus and beyond them, Mount Ida, its green valleys and high hills, the moving white spots she knew were the fleece of countless sheep. The lines of the Scamander river glistened like a silver thread and at the horizon, the blue of the mountain melted with the blue-grayish hue of the sky. It was spectacular. It was in front of her and yet, it felt as if it was not. In this moment, instead of the mountain Ida, she saw Mount Taygetus, instead of the Trojan palaces – the stately halls of the Spartan royal house, and instead of the Trojan warriors and women – the many suitors gathering in her home town to try and win her for a wife – her, the most beautiful among mortal women.

She could see them clearly – Ajax' confident smile, Diomedes' noble bearing. Her father's worry, well disguised but present, at the prospect of choosing one and alienating everyone else. And Odysseus' smart suggestion that had saved them all. She could see herself thinking, pondering and tormenting over the decision. She had been so young and inexperienced.

All that was coming back to her, it was her life, everything else was just a dream. Helen did not know what was going on with her. Maybe the war was finally starting to take its toll on her.

"My lady, what would you choose to wear?"

She startled and looked at her maid. Aethra was holding two garments in front of her. Helen chose the blue one. Not that it mattered – whatever she wore, she could look nothing less than perfect. That was one of the advantages of great beauty.

"Has Paris returned from the battle?" she asked.

The old woman's mouth twitched but she gave no further indication of her feelings for the one she had been asked about. "No, my lady, he hasn't."

_I could get her punished for her impudence_, Helen thought absent-mindedly. No one could call Aethra too fond of her new master. Of course, she knew she would never do such a thing. Aethra had been with her for too long. Decades.

She suddenly shivered. Decades. So much time had passed since she had first met the older woman. An entire life – her own. She stared at Aethra's swift motions with the discarded garment and shook her head. Was that what the daughter of King Pittheus had been born for? Theseus' mother? The princess of Troezen, the Queen of Athens… To comb the hair of the Spartan princess? To fold her tunics in the big chests?

Aethra brought her a goblet of clear water. "You look tired," she said.

Helen drank. "I was thinking of the suitors in Sparta," she said.

Why Paris hadn't been among them! She would have chosen him and everything would have played out so differently. There wouldn't have been a war at all. Now, she would have been a happy wife and mother.

"What are _you_ thinking about?" she asked.

"That my lord Menelaus was the true fauvorite of Aphrodite."

That was so ridiculous that Helen laughed aloud. Sometimes, Aethra said things that made no sense, and she said them with such a straight face, you'd think she really meant them. But then, of course, Aethra had always taken a certain liking to Menelaus that Helen could never understand the reason for. Sure, he had always treated her justly but so had Helen's late father, so had her brothers, apart from the whole enslaving her for vengeance thing. What was so special about Menelaus to demand such loyalty?

Anyway, it would be of no use to question her now. As fond as Helen was of her, Aethra had always been a bit strange, even when obliging to her most shocking commands, like gathering the royal treasure and leaving Sparta with Helen and Paris under the veil of the night.

"Let's start with the weaving," Helen said. "Is my loom ready?"

"It is," the maid assured her. "Let's go to the working room."

"Yes, let's go."

Little did Helen know that this day would be the day when Paris would humiliate her by running away from her spurned husband Menelaus. Angered, sad and disappointed, she felt ashamed by him – and even more angered by the fact that he was not ashamed of himself! Today, everyone had seen that she had taken flight with a coward, a man who could hold his own against a worthy rival than a sparrow against an eagle! And he did not think it a big deal. Well, she did.

She had liked him because he was so different from Menelaus. He had turned out to be even more different than she had suspected – or wanted, in fact. Menelaus would never flee from the battlefield, no matter how slim his chances were, of that she was sure. But it didn't matter now. She was bound to Paris, no matter his failings. There had been too much bloodshed, too many victims for anyone in Troy to forgive her. Her protection lay with Paris, as well as her passion, as much as it pained her to admit it.

At least she could forget all about it when he took her to his bed. He could still make her forget the world for the time being.

The problem was, when they left their bed, the world was still there.

She first saw the woman a few days later, in the temple of Athena. She didn't pay her much attention – she just noticed that she was lovely and obviously miserable. The other Trojan women kept throwing glances at her and whispering among themselves, but they stopped when Helen approached. She was not surprised – everyone in Troy hated her and if men could admire and desire her for her beauty, women were merciless. They saw her not for her beauty but for what she had cost them: husbands, sons, and brothers. She had no doubt that had it not been for Priam's mighty protection, they would have torn her to pieces – and rightly so. When she was with women, she existed in cold silence interrupted only in her own home – if Paris' palace could be called that.

She knelt in front of the statue. "Mighty Athena," she prayed silently, "tell me what is right to do. Tell me how I can exonerate for what I did. Is there a way I can compensate for my mistakes? How can I make it up for my daughter, my lord Menelaus, or the people of Sparta? Blessed lady, tell me what to do to put an end to this endless war."

She stood up and let the other women finish their prayers, although she wanted to scream when she heard them praying for the death of Diomedes, Ajax, and the other leaders. That was not what she wanted. It was a war and they supported their side. But did she? Which was her side? Did she know it herself? Did she know for whose victory she prayed?

She suddenly shivered with cold. She did not know how much time had passed. All other women had left, leaving here only her and Aethra. The old woman was still kneeling in front of the statue and Helen did not want to intrude on her worship. She knew that Aethra held Athena in particular devotion and wondered what she was praying for. So far, Athena had refused her prayers, leaving her a slave for all these decades. Did it matter for her who would win? She'd still be a handmaid to Helen – if not in Troy, then in Sparta. If Menelaus didn't kill his unfaithful wife, that was it.

If the air of hatred that she lived in didn't kill her first.

She next saw the woman in Priam's palace – she was weaving a fabric with the other women but she looked separated from them. They ignored her and she ignored them, not raising her eyes from the loom, her dark hair perfectly combed in neat plaits, her face hollow and pale.

One of the women in Helen's wake whispered something and snickered.

"It isn't true!" Aethra's voice suddenly came, full with such fury that Helen blinked. All these years, she had barely heard the Athenian woman raise her voice. "My lord would never do such a thing. He is too much a man for this, a real king. But I can see where you come from. Here, you have no idea what a real king, a real man should be like."

Astounded gasps followed her outburst and Helen quickly turned round and stood between Aethra and the nearest woman, Theano, priestess of Athena, who had raised her hand for a strike. "No," she said firmly, "no, I cannot let you do this."

"She was disrespectful…" Theano started.

"It doesn't matter," Helen cut in. "She isn't yours to beat."

"This handmaid dares talk about…"

Theano's eyes shot daggers at Aethra who met them without batting an eyelid. She smiled so haughtily and her eyes blazed so hot a fire that all Helen could think was, _Yes, she's a real queen, too – a great queen of a great state. An Achaean queen._

"Yes, I dare, lady," Aethra snapped. "I know what you think about me – that I'm just a handmaid, entirely in Helen's mercy, someone who has no thoughts of her own, but you are only part right. I was taken a captive. That's all. But my family was just as great as your royal family here." She looked at the garment Andromache was weaving for Hector. "My son was no different from your greatest champion. My home was far more impressive than this palace. In fact, so was my father's home. If anyone here is qualified to make comparisons between men and men, between kings and kings, it is certainly me. And I say that what you are whispering about my lord Menelaus is not true."

Everyone stared at her in shock. Helen felt as if she was looking at a stranger. At the same time, she exulted in Aethra's courage, for if she said any such thing herself, that would be the end of her. But there was no man who would stoop so low as to kill a slave. There were certain benefits of being degraded. But she had no idea that Aethra was able of sucha passionate outburst. _Now, I can see that as a young woman, she must have been so beautiful, it is no wonder that Poseidon fell for her_, Helen thought. _But what was that about Menelaus? Why did she mention him?_

She asked her as soon as they were alone in the female rooms of Paris' palace. "What's going on?" she demanded. "Why did you mention Menelaus? What does he have to do with anything?"

Aethra seemed surprised by her own furious reaction. "I was too quick," she apologized, "it was not my place to talk to the ladies like this."

"Oh stop it!" Helen interrupted. "By lineage and marriage, you precede any of them, except for Hecuba herself and you know that. Stop trying to play the obedient slave, Aethra. Tell me what's going on."

Aethra looked at her. "This woman," she said, "the young dark-haired one…"

"They are all dark-haired," Helen muttered, "but yes, I know the one you are talking about. Go on."

"She was captured by the Greeks," Aethra explained. "She was my lord Menelaus' prize."

Helen felt the blood rising in her face. "So what is she doing back in Troy?" she asked.

"There was a prophesy that she needed to be returned to her family. Lady Artemis' wish." Aethra fell silent. "They have not been treating her very well since she returned."

"I see." Helen's voice was steely. "And what did they say to make you so angry?"

The old woman blushed. "They say that my lord Menelaus had beaten her and…"

"That's a lie!" Helen exclaimed. "Menelaus would never do such a thing. He just doesn't have it in him."

She was absolutely sure of this. The strange thing in Menelaus' war-loving temper was that he was not able to hit a woman and he had never done it. He couldn't hit a child or anyone at all who was defenseless. Of course, his treacherous wife could make an exception but Helen knew in her bones that Menelaus would never harm a slave, a girl who had had the hard luck of being captured and given to him.

Of course, he must have done other things with her… Helen suddenly remembered all these feelings that she had thought gone long ago: the helplessness, the anger, the bitterness at looking at that young girl, her belly swelling with his child when Helen herself had proven barren after giving birth to Hermione. Again, she felt rejected and neglected. But that was madness! _She_ had left Menelaus for Paris and besides, it was not as if she expected of him to go to bed alone every night all these years.

She took a breath and forced herself to calm down. "Does she claim these lies?" she asked.

Aethra shook her head. "On the contrary," she said. "She did not want to go. She…"

Helen suddenly laughed – a dark, mirthless sound. "Of course," she said. Now she could see everything clearly. "That's why they hate her. Because she became fond of their enemy. Father Zeus, what a mess!"

She looked at the window until she gathered her thoughts. Then she turned back to Aethra. "If we ever get out of here," she whispered, "you'll be a free woman, Aethra. I swear it. You've been a good and faithful companion. You've more than earned it."

"_When_ we get out of here," Aethra replied just as softly, for these words could be the end of them.

They fell silent. From where they were, they couldn't hear the sounds of the oncoming battle which was good. It was hard enough as it was.

This night, while Paris slept, Helen crept out on the balcony and stared at the stars shining over Mount Ida. Again, she saw Mount Taygetus, the mountain she had been born next to. People whispered that Zeus had made love to Queen Leda there, on the very top of the mountain, bringing life to the twins and Helen herself. She remembered that she and Menelaus had loved going there sometimes – not as often as she wished but whenever he could find time between his duties. And thinking about that time, she suddenly, for a very first time, realized what Aethra had truly meant a few days ago. "Menelaus is the true favourite of Aphrodite," she had said and Helen had been confused. How could be a man whose wife had spurned him for a lover be a favourite of Aphrodite? But Aethra had not meant that. Helen had fallen for Paris because Aphrodite had willed her. Menelaus was loved without the goddess' interference. That slave girl in Sparta, the Trojan woman whom he had taken as a prize – they loved him truly. And when Aphrodite had not been interested in Helen's life, when Helen was left to choose her husband alone, she had chosen Menelaus. _That_ was the true blessing of Aphrodite, whether the goddess of love knew it or not. Aethra had known it the entire time. Helen had not.

She turned back to the room and stared at Paris as if she were seeing him for a first time. A bright flame that had exhausted itself – that was their whole story. A bright flame that had made her burn with desire for a while and had finally left her shivering with cold, among people who were not her own. They were foreign to her and so was he.

She suddenly felt that she needed to see Aethra – the only person in broad Troy she felt close to in this moment. Aethra was an Achaean captive, just like her. And she was far wiser than her. Helen believed that just being near the old woman would help her regain control over the inferno that was raving in her head and soul.

Her decision taken, Helen quickly slipped into a robe and left the chamber bare-footed. At the door of the servants' rooms, she stopped. The door of the room that Aethra and Clymene shared was slightly ajar. Helen could hear Aethra's voice from the inside but it did not sound as if she was addressing Clymene. Curious, Helen peeked in.

Clymene was nowhere to be seen. Aethra was kneeling in front of the window, pressing her forehead on the floor. She was adorned in the loveliest gown imaginable – the very same one Helen had seen her wearing years ago, when her great son Theseus had been still alive and she had been a stately queen of the great Athens. Helen had had no idea that she had managed to keep the gown all these years as a handmaid. How, she could not imagine.

Aethra's lips were moving. Her voice was rapt and deep. "Athena," she was whispering, "Athena! Help me see Athens again, to say a prayer in the great Acropolis and visit my son's grave. Athena, I beg you!"

Helen stood silent, listening. Through the open window, the sun was rising and its first rays were shining on the golden patterns of Aethra's gown.


End file.
